Remarkably Bright Creatures: A character-driven charmer

Remarkably Bright Creatures (2026) • View trailer

4.5 stars (out of five); rated PG-13, for brief profanity, fleeting drug use and dramatic intensity

Available via: Netflix

By Derrick Bang 

Author Shelby Van Pelt must be pleased; book-to-film translations aren’t often treated with this much respect.

 

Although Tova (Sally Field) finds it difficult to share her private anguish with anybody else,
she confides everything to Marcellus, the Giant Pacific octopus who resides in the
oceanarium where she works ... and he understands far more than she could imagine.

Granted, director Olivia Newman’s script — co-written with John Whittington — changes some minor details, and compresses events; that’s to be expecting, when turning a 368-page book into a 111-minute movie.

But the buoyant, rapturous result definitely captures the story’s heart, and all three key characters are portrayed marvelously. The supporting players also are well cast; my only complaint is that we don’t get to spend enough time with some of them.

 

(Just in passing, one must acknowledge the unlikely coincidence of getting two octopus-themed films in such short order, following 2020’s My Octopus Teacher.)

 

The film opens with a voice-over introduction by Marcellus (voiced gravely, and oh-so-perfectly by Alfred Molina), a Giant Pacific octopus who is the star attraction at the (fictitious) Sowell Bay Oceanarium, in Washington’s Puget Sound. He morosely begins by acknowledging that this morning is “Day 1,404 of my captivity.”

 

Marcellus laments that he is “subservient to a species beneath me in every possible way,” and has little use for the throngs of people who visit each day. That’s particularly true of the grimy, obnoxious young children who press their noses against the glass tank, or lick it, and leave greasy fingerprints that become a “tiny mural”: an admittedly disgusting image that Newman highlights from Marcellus’ point of view.

 

(One must admit, were an octopus — or any other critter — to be that sentient and intelligent, such on-display captivity would be an ongoing nightmare.)

 

Marcellus makes an exception for Tova Sullivan (Sally Field), the elderly janitor/cleaner who, after hours, spends each evening lovingly wiping all the aquarium glass, scraping chewing gum from the floors, and otherwise washing, buffing and scrubbing everything thoroughly. She’s particularly fond of Marcellus, and confides in him, somehow feeling that he understands her.

 

To a degree, he does. He recognizes that she carries a deep sorrow: “I felt the hole in her heart.”

 

Marcellus also is quite the escape artist, able to slip out of his tank when impelled by boredom or curiosity. We suspect that he periodically visits other tanks, while pointedly avoiding the one that contains savage wolf eels.

Thunderbolts* — A modest storm

Thunderbolts* (2025) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for strong violence and dramatic intensity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.11.25

One must be a total Marvel Cinematic Universe geek in order to recognize these second- and third-tier characters, let alone recall their back-stories.

 

This story's rag-tag, sorta-kinda superheroes — from left, Ghost (Hannah John-Kamen),
Bob (Lewis Pullman), U.S. Agent (Wyatt Russell), Red Guardian (David Harbour)
Yelena (Florence Pugh) and Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan) — grimly realize
that they're facing another nasty problem.

And while it’s superficially clever to unite them in such a manner, scripters Eric Pearson and Joanna Calo haven’t done much with the “reformed villain” concept that comic book creators Kurt Busiek and Mark Bagley concocted, back in 1997. 

Pearson and Calo also tried to inject the snarky humor delivered so well in the first two Guardians of the Galaxy entries ... with only marginal success. Most of this film ranges from ho-hum to just plain dumb, and director Jake Schreier brings absolutely nothing to the party.

 

The story begins as Yelena Belova (Florence Pugh) — adopted sister of the late and much lamented Natasha Romanoff (Scarlett Johansson), both of them skilled Black Widow assassins — infiltrates and destroys a Malaysian laboratory, having been sent by corrupt CIA director Valentina Allegra de Fontaine (Julia Louis-Dreyfus, gleefully evil).

 

Back in D.C., de Fontaine is being grilled by a committee chaired by Congressman Gary (Wendell Pierce, recognized from TV’s Elsbeth), who can’t wait to have her impeached and arrested for high treason. Fully aware of her vulnerability, de Fontaine has been clandestinely “cleaning house” by having her pet mercenaries destroy all traces of the illegal O.X.E. Group’s “Sentry” superhuman project; Yelena’s recent action was one such mission.

 

Gary is assisted by his star witness: junior Congressman Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan), aka The Winter Solder, a crucial part of numerous MCU films, notably alongside the original Captain America.

 

Times are grim. The Avengers have disbanded; Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) is dead; Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson) has left for Europe, after seeing his beloved S.H.I.E.L.D. destroyed following a HYDRA takeover; other heroes are occupied with their own stuff; and the world recently watched in horror, as the U.S. President morphed into Red Hulk (in Captain America: Brave New World, a few months ago).

 

People are afraid of supers ... and de Fontaine cheerfully exploits this paranoia.

 

As the final self-protective measure, she orchestrates a mission involving all of her mercenaries: Yelena; Ava Starr, aka Ghost (Hannah John-Kamen); Antonia Dreykov, aka Taskmaster (Olga Kurylenko), also a Black Widow; and disgraced former Captain America John F. Walker (Wyatt Russell), now dubbed U.S. Agent. But it’s a sham; each has been ordered to kill one of the others, supposedly for betrayal, and — as an added touch — the O.X.E. setting also is a death trap.

 

To make matters stranger, their initially hostile fracas is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a pajama-clad civilian who identifies himself simply as Bob (Lewis Pullman). He hasn’t the faintest idea why he’s there, or where he came from.

Salem's Lot: Not enough bite

Salem's Lot (2024) • View trailer

3.5 stars (out of five). Rated R, for bloody violence 

Available via: MAX

By Derrick Bang

Film adaptations of Stephen King’s novels have run the gamut, from the excellent — Misery, Stand By Me, The Shawshank Redemption and Carrie — to the deplorable: Thinner, Cell, Lawnmower Man and many, many others.

 

With sundown rapidly approaching, the wary vampire hunters — from left, Susan
(Makenzie Leigh), Ben (Lewis Pullman), Dr. Cody (Alfre Woodard), Mark (Jordan
Preston Carter) and Father Callahan (John Benjamin Hickey) — contemplate how
best to invade the dread Marsden House.

Most often, the fault lies with inept directors and scripters. Sometimes, though, the fans who inhabit what King calls Constant Reader Land are upset because a given adaptation changed so much that it “ruined the book.” To those folks, King always cites what James M. Cain said to a student reporter who bemoaned how Hollywood had altered books such as Double Indemnity and The Postman Always Rings Twice.

“The movies didn’t change them a bit, son,” Cain replied, pointing to a shelf of books behind his desk. “They’re all right up there. Every word is the same as when I wrote them.”

 

Director/scripter Gary Dauberman’s respectful handling of King’s famed 1975 novel does pretty well, when it comes to fidelity. He includes almost all the central characters, hits most of the story’s key plot points, and deftly maintains the unnerving atmosphere King established so well, with the juxtaposition of quaintly bucolic, small-town Americana invaded by macabre, old-world Evil.

 

And when Dauberman does slide the story into different territory — notably during the third act — he does so cleverly; the climax is both ingenious, and suspensefully mounted with an assist from editor Luke Ciarrocchi.

 

That said, this film fails in another, equally important manner: overall pacing. 

 

After taking time, during a leisurely first act, to introduce the key players and set up the looming threat, a fleeting second act rushes far too quickly into the aforementioned finale. King’s luxurious attention to detail — the nuances of sidebar characters, and their back-stories — are completely absent.

 

This is particularly egregious with respect to school teacher Matt Burke and local priest Father Callahan (although that’s getting ahead of things a bit).

 

The result is a jarring case of whiplash, as if great chunks of this film had been left on the cutting-room floor. Dauberman has admitted that his first cut ran three hours, which I suspect would have been preferable; director Tobe Hooper’s 1979 two-part TV miniseries, running 183 minutes, was — and remains — vastly superior.

 

The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial: Riveting courtroom theatrics

The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial (2023) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Not rated, and suitable for all ages

Available via: Paramount+

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.13.23

The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial — based on Herman Wouk’s 1951 novel, The Caine Mutiny — has been an actor’s showcase ever since he adapted it for the stage two years later.

 

Given its ongoing popularity as a live theater production, it’s surprising that no big-screen version has been mounted since director Edward Dmytryk’s powerhouse with Humphrey Bogart, José Ferrer, Van Johnson and Fred MacMurray. But scripters Stanley Roberts and Michael Blankfort strayed significantly from Wouk’s source material in that 1954 film; director/adaptor William Friedkin has gone back to basics with this new version.

 

Lt. Stephen Maryk (Jack Lacey, left) is understandably unhappy upon learning that his
defense attorney, Lt. Barney Greenwald (Jason Clarke), believes him guilty.

Indeed, his vision is just this side of a filmed stage play, with only three sets: a courtroom, the hallway outside it, and a gathering that takes place elsewhere during the story’s epilogue.

That certainly doesn’t diminish the power of Friedkin’s adaptation. Wouk’s dialogue still crackles with intensity; the story remains riveting; and cinematographer Michael Grady adds considerable tension with inventive camera angles and shrewd, well employed close-ups.

 

And, yes; the acting is exceptional.

 

Wouk’s original took place in a World War II setting; Friedkin’s sole major change moves the story to the present day, setting the action in the aftermath of a mutiny that takes place during the USS Caine’s mine-sweeping operation in the Persian Gulf. Lt. Stephen Maryk (Jack Lacy) is on trial for “improperly” relieving Capt. Philip Francis Queeg (Kiefer Sutherland) of duty during a dangerous typhoon.

 

Maryk did so because he believed Queeg’s actions during the storm put the ship in peril. Maryk took command, citing Article 184 of Navy Regulations, and steered the Caine north — directly into the storm — instead of south, as Queeg had demanded. The ship and crew survived, apparently validating Maryk’s decision … but that didn’t save him from the consequences of his actions.

 

In another nod to modern times, the courtroom prosecuting attorney has been gender-shifted; Monica Raymund gives a crackerjack performance as Lt. Commander Challee. Eyes blazing, posture combative, armed with impressive legal and naval knowledge, clearly whip-smart and sharply perceptive, she’s a true force of nature.

 

Maryk’s defense attorney — Lt. Barney Greenwald (Jason Clarke) — doesn’t even want the assignment. As he admits to an ashen-faced Maryk, prior to the start of trial, he believes his client guilty, and would much rather act as prosecutor. But Greenwald understands the importance of a fair trial, and recognizes his duty to mount the best possible defense.

 

Even so, Greenwald’s initial ambivalence does not go unnoticed by Capt. Blakely (Lance Reddick), chief judge of the court-martial. In the forcefully clipped, severe tone for which Reddick has become famous, he gives Maryk the opportunity for fresh counsel. (Reddick gets more out of a frown, than most actors get out of pages of dialogue.)

Instinct prompts the defendant to stick with Greenwald.

The Starling Girl: Doesn't quite fly

The Starling Girl (2023) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated R, and too harshly, for mild sexuality

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang

Although the setting is unconventional, writer/director Laurel Parmet’s quiet character study focuses on a familiar theme: the coming-of-age saga of a young woman caught between community and parental expectations, and her desire for individuality and self-expression.

 

Jem (Eliza Scanlen, foreground center) is happiest while dancing, even if it's merely a
chaste "worship performance" during her community church service.

But although Eliza Scanlen delivers a richly nuanced starring performance — she’s well remembered as Beth March, in 2019’s Little Women — Parmet’s film too frequently feels as flat, lifeless and colorless as the enclave in which this story is set.

Seventeen-year-old Jem Starling (Scanlen), the eldest child of parents Paul and Heidi (Jimmi Simpson and Wrenn Schmidt), has grown up in an insular fundamentalist Christian community in rural Kentucky. Under the strict guidance of Pastor Taylor (Kyle Secor), everybody practices extreme patriarchal values: Men’s words are the words of God, and women must submit to them.

 

The story begins with a church service highlighted by a “worship dance” performed by Jem and several other teenage girls. They’re barefoot, dressed in the purity of white; arm movements are minimal and reserved, always reaching toward heaven.

 

Pastor Taylor is pleased. Moments later, though, Jem is humiliated and embarrassed when one of the other mothers chides her for wearing “the wrong kind of bra” … because, apparently, people can tell that she is wearing a bra.

 

(Constant Companion and I exchanged a puzzled look. Seriously?)

 

It quickly becomes clear that dance is Jem’s sole outlet: the one thing that allows her to express herself, however delicately. But this sets up a struggle within her soul, as she worries whether pride, and a desire to stand out, are at odds with her worship of God.

 

The dynamic shifts with the return of Pastor Taylor’s elder son, Owen (Lewis Pullman), and his wife Misty (Jessamine Burgum), who’ve been doing missionary work in Puerto Rico. Owen takes over as the community’s youth pastor; he’s charismatic, a bit rebellious and dangerously flirty.

 

Jem, meanwhile, has assumed a leadership role in the dance troupe: a position that makes several of the other girls quite catty, with sidelong comments that imply Jem has become too full of herself. That, too, is not the proper way to worship God.

 

Surprisingly, Owen insists that God wants Jem to enjoy and love dancing; this encouragement prompts Jem to embrace her performance instincts, and teach the troupe more expressive choreography.

 

Then, disturbingly, Owen’s attention becomes too up close and personal: a dangerous dynamic that catches Jem at the worst possible moment, while she’s already struggling with her developing sexuality.

 

Top Gun: Maverick — Top thrills

Top Gun: Maverick (2022) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for intense action, and some strong language

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.27.22

When all the cylinders fire properly, it’s hard to beat a star-driven action melodrama.

 

Although this rip-roaring sequel to 1986’s Top Gun has been shaped to Tom Cruise’s outsized personality, there’s no denying the resulting entertainment value. This is classic Hollywood filmmaking: larger-than-life characters with just enough individuality to distinguish one from the next; a couple shades of interpersonal angst — and conflict — to touch the heartstrings; and all manner of heroic derring-do.

 

When his hot-shot students contemptuously snicker over Maverick's (Tom Cruise)
calm insistense that they still have a lot to learn, it doesn't take long for this "old guy"
to prove who really has the right stuff.

I’m generally concerned when the opening credits cite as many as five writers — in this case, Peter Craig, Justin Marks, Ehren Kruger, Eric Warren Singer and Christopher McQuarrie — but this isn’t a case of too many cooks in the kitchen. Their story is cleverly structured into three distinct acts, each with specific goals and relationship arcs that blend with the high-octane fighter jet action.

Director Joseph Kosinski and editor Eddie Hamilton keep a steady hand on the throttle, and their tension-fueled ride never lets up.

 

Granted, this is one of those silly stories where everybody is known by colorful monikers, rather than their actual names. Ya gotta just roll with that.

 

In a refreshing nod to real time, more than three decades have passed since Pete “Maverick” Mitchell (Cruise) established himself as one of the Navy’s top aviators. He has continued to push the envelope as a brave — and somewhat reckless — test pilot, nimbly dodging an advancement in rank that would ground him.

 

“It’s not what I am,” he admits, at one point. “It’s who I am.”

 

Each time a fresh act of insubordination has threatened to get him kicked out of the Navy, Maverick has been rescued by former nemesis-turned-wingman Tom “Iceman” Kazansky (Val Kilmer), now a 4-star admiral with the clout to protect his longtime friend.

 

But even Iceman may not be able to save Maverick from the high-tech progress that includes robotic and remote-controlled fighter jets that won’t require flesh-and-blood pilots. 

 

“The future is coming,” barks Rear Adm. Chester “Hammer” Cain (Ed Harris, in a fleeting cameo), “and you’re not in it.”

 

Nonsense, Maverick replies. A mission’s success always will come down to the split-second reflexes of the pilot on the scene.

 

As if to test this belief, Maverick abruptly is sent back to “Top Gun” school, where he liaises with Adm. Beau “Cyclone” Simpson (Jon Hamm) and Adm. Solomon “Warlock” Bates (Charles Parnell). Assuming he’s about to get a mission, Maverick is chastened to learn that he’ll be teaching a dozen much younger Top Gun graduates: the elite “best of the best.” 

Bad Times at the El Royale: Well titled

Bad Times at the El Royale (2018) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for strong violence, profanity, drug content and dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang

It begins with such promise.

During the first hour, I couldn’t wait to see this film a second time.

Traveling salesman Laramie Seymour Sullivan (Jon Hamm, left) and touring soul singer
Darlene Sweet (Cynthia Erivo) are just as surprised as desk manager Miles Miller
(Lewis Pullman), when their check-in procedure is interrupted by a brazen newcomer.

Shortly thereafter, my enthusiasm began to wane. Ninety minutes in, it was obvious that one viewing would be sufficient.

By the time this interminable slog had concluded, I wanted my 141 minutes back.

Yes, it’s that long. No, the length isn’t justified. Not by any means.

I suspect writer/director Drew Goddard intended Bad Times at the El Royale to be a similarly snarky and dark-dark-darkblend of this past spring’s Hotel Artemis and Quentin Tarantino’s Hateful Eight. The preview certainly suggested as much, and Goddard’s pedigree is solid; he was the guiding hand behind 2012’s ferociously clever The Cabin in the Woods, and he cut his teeth writing and directing episodes of cult TV faves such as Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Alias and Lost.

What could possible go wrong?

Well … a lack of self-discipline, for starters. An inability to recognize when “mischievous” veers into “tasteless.” And a failure to perceive that although his script has a great set-up and premise, the execution leaves much to be desired. By the bonkers third act, at which point the film has gone completely off the rails, one gets a sense that Goddard was hastily scribbling fresh pages as he went along.

Such a disappointment.

That said, there’s no denying the skill with which Goddard toys with us, during the ingeniously twisty first hour.

It’s January 1969: a time of momentous upheaval, as the last vestiges of the debonair, Rat Pack jazz era are buried beneath the rock ’n’ roll-fueled counter-culture revolution. Richard Nixon has just been inaugurated as the 37th president of the United States, and a new decade beckons.

But on the border between California and Nevada, the once-glorious El Royale still seems time-locked in the 1950s. The resort is cheekily built to straddle both states, with a fat red line dividing the two wings of rooms, and running right down the middle of the spacious lobby. The establishment offers warmth and sunshine to the west, and hope, opportunity — and gambling — to the east. Once upon a time, this Tahoe hot spot catered to the country’s most famous celebrities and politicians; now it’s just this shy of being a ghost.

(The El Royale is inspired by the actual Cal Neva Resort and Casino, which similarly straddled both states.)

Battle of the Sexes: A match made in heaven

Battle of the Sexes (2017) • View trailer 
Four stars. Rated PG-13, for sexual content and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.29.17

An estimated 90 million people around the world parked in front of TV sets on Sept. 20, 1973, in order to watch what became a defining moment in sports, American culture and — most particularly — the rising momentum for women’s equality.

When she agrees to the challenge issued by Bobby Riggs (Steve Carell), Billy Jean King
(Emma Stone) also gamely endures the media circus that precedes the historic event.

At the same time, the so-called “Battle of the Sexes” was pure circus.

On top of which, one of the participants was struggling with sexual identity, at a time when such matters scarcely were tolerated in this country, let alone allowed to go public.

That’s a lot of baggage for a single two-hour film to handle, and its success is a tribute to pedigree: Co-directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (Little Miss Sunshine, Ruby Sparks), along with Academy Award-winning scripter Simon Beaufoy (Slumdog Millionaire), have concocted a thoughtful, perceptive and thoroughly entertaining dramedy that blends tender romance, historical context and an undercurrent of sly outrage over the degree of unapologetic chauvinism that was fashionable a mere four decades ago.

Add two stars who skillfully adopt the identities of their real-world counterparts — to a frequently spooky degree — and the result is quite engaging.

The story begins in 1971, as Billie Jean King (Emma Stone) and good friend Gladys Heldman (Sarah Silverman) — a hard-nosed PR and tennis maven — confront longtime tennis promoter Jack Kramer (Bill Pullman) over the insulting disparity between the financial prizes earned by male and female champions. Kramer holds firm with the prevailing view that women aren’t “worth” parity.

In response, King and Heldman — with considerable assistance from King’s husband, Larry (Austin Stowell) — form their own nascent women’s league (which, within a few years, would become the Women’s Tennis Association). It’s a gutsy move, since Kramer immediately expels them from the U.S. Lawn Tennis Association. The players — which include King, Margaret Court (Jessica McNamee), Rosie Casals (Natalie Morales) and half a dozen others — nonetheless adopt a spunky guerrilla spirit, booking their own venues, posting promotional banners, and selling their own tickets.

Matters improve when the group receives full sponsorship from Philip Morris, for what becomes known as the Virginia Slims Tour.

Meanwhile, Bobby Riggs (Steve Carell), decades removed from his professional championships in the 1940s, frets over his own obsolescence. He chafes behind a useless desk job, supported by a wealthy wife, Priscilla (Elisabeth Shue), who is losing her tolerance for his chronic gambling habit. But as a longtime hustler and media-savvy opportunist, Riggs smells publicity after learning what King and her cohorts are up to.

And so comes the challenge, from the man who proudly promises to keep the “show” in chauvinism.